


I didn't wanna fuck you baby but you're pretty when you're mine; I didn't really love you baby, but I'm pretty when I lie

by mussings_over_tea



Series: Somewhere between unsure and a hundred [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, M/M, as always with me it's kinda Romantic Porn, don't wanna spoil this one with tagging, i'm trash sorry not sorry whenever i look under nick's tag on any given internet media, if russian girls related articles don't pop up it's always rafa nadal AMAZING, kinda.... Rafa convinces himself it is not though, nope couldn't make the title be any longer haha, so you're gonna have to find out for yourself what a chef Nicholas is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24526924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mussings_over_tea/pseuds/mussings_over_tea
Summary: Nick was never good at baking, to put it mildly, but he's anything if not creative (and doing before thinking mostly, scandalous vibes prevail amrite?). To make up for the lack of this particular skill, he follows a plan, since arguably the greatest of all time deserves a birthday cake for his birthday, yep?
Relationships: Nick Kyrgios/Rafael Nadal, Rafael Nadal/Maria Francisca Perello (background)
Series: Somewhere between unsure and a hundred [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772491
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	I didn't wanna fuck you baby but you're pretty when you're mine; I didn't really love you baby, but I'm pretty when I lie

„Red or white?” Nick throws it out there, feigning a casual tone, as he browses through lingerie related Instagrams at Krys’s living room. She’s finishing up a make-up for one of their outings, even after all those years of being party friends, expecting nothing, always taken by a surprise with him. 

“As in wine? How classy of you. Kygs,” she chuckles, blinking at the mirror rapidly to probably test the ferocity of her mascara, but the fuck does he know about any of it any way. Even if at some point, or maybe this specific point, right now, he aims at broadening the horizons and breach this particular topic with her soonish. Jesus.

“Please. Wine is like water to me lately. Nothing classy about it, Krys. Come here and check shit out,” his hands are damp even if she’s a friend. Even if she would understand a lot. Without questions asked. Hopefully.

“Holy shit, which Russian lamb you wanna lure with this one?” she plops by his side on a red leather sofa to peek into his phone and see, the whole feed of lacy panties he’s been seemingly nonchalantly and very objectively going through. Pft.

“Russian chicks are super tough. Shit bounces off them scary easy,” he snaps his fingers.

“Shit like thick-headed idiots for example?” she nudges him with a raspy giggle and a playful stroke across his nape he leans towards with a bristle. Easy and eager. Whatever. She knows. She understands. And he doesn’t have to pretend tough and unavailable for her.

“Haha, hilarious,” he snorts to her playful strokes.

“And also true,” she pets his head one more time and then unceremoniously grabs his phone to browse through outfits with a gleeful leer on her face.

“Jeez, where’s the fire,” Nick chuckles, coming down the high, with blood no longer rushing under his skin, making his hands feel slimy and moist. He’s grounded and himself. Under her touch.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” she indicates the feed on his phone. Crimson red, skimpy lingerie, barely leaving anything to imagination. Tight and revealing. In more ways than one. Exposing him. For who he is. A fool and a clown. Done with clinging to denial, though. Brave enough to embrace the feelings for what they are.

_And what they are, Kygs?_

This is the part where he’s making it up as he goes.

“This time it’s not about Eastern Europe. Try, more in the …,” Nick falls into deep thought before he answers. “.. south of Russia?” he still looks like he’s chewing on the answers to Krystyana bursting into hoarse laughter, poking his forehead with her long-nailed, perfectly done finger.

“Don’t break your brain, honey.”

“And you don’t drill a hole in my head. Jesus, you could kill people with those,” he leans away from her, disgruntled but fond, because that’s always been her style and well, they wouldn’t be here, now, about to tackle the topic that sprung to his head, made him giggle hysterically to himself in the middle of the night, still following it through a day after, with focus and intention. There is no going back now.

“Okay, enough with the trivia quizzes. I’ve always sucked at geography. Spill the beans, Kygs. What’s that about?” always a no-bullshit girl, while holding her liquor the best out of all of them, her perfect make-up intact, mad vibes of crazy spontaneity yet always collecting them all back home safe and sound. Honestly. A dream best friend.

So, Nick trusts. He caves in. And he knows he’s going to be in good hands to carry him. To help him be brave.

“Actually, these are supposed to be for me,” he still mumbles, more than he normally does. Not used to being bare with himself. Even with her.

“Fuck. How drunk are you?” it’s not mocking. She watches him with curiosity. Open and eager. But he never took her that deep. Into the core of himself. Where raw needs bleed. He rarely takes himself there either. Well, he’s about to. Who else to guide him through the experience.

“Not drunk enough to be even admitting this, I guess.”

She watches him from a raised, stylized eyebrow. Thinking. Processing. Accepting. Like she always is and finally giving him allowance or even absolution with her definite.

“Oh, babe, you’re gonna need so much vodka to survive shaving for that,” he points at the lingerie catalogue still opened on his phone.

“Shaving?? Who said anything about shaving??” he squeaks and jerks away from her like she burns.

“If you’re planning to be wearing that,” she indicates one of the more flimsy and almost completely see-through pieces. Nick throat goes dry, as he’s assaulted with the possibilities, as he thinks of wearing this, showing himself like this. He also stirs in attention to the images that pop into his head and this is entirely wrong and unacceptable to be having this kind of reaction on Krystyana’s sofa, for the love of fuck. “No compromises on that. The aesthetic has its price, Nicko.”

“Do you all go through that shit for the aesthetic?”

“You as in girls? Oh, boy, do you really wanna go there? We can talk about it over shopping and shaving and all the rest of the jam,” she throws his phone back at him, gets up and gets herself ready for that outing he didn’t even need to suggest. She already knows. Reads in between the lines.

“So, you’re gonna help me choose?” he still asks, or mutters insecure.

“Sweetie, I thought you’ll never ask. Buying sexy lingerie for you? That’s a free Dinseyland ride for me.”

Okay. This sounds reassuring. Maybe the idea is not that surreal. It suddenly feels right. Daring. Arousing, too. Fuels him on with purpose in times of helpless stagnation. Makes Nick want _him_ , want _them_ , even more. That hunger never appeased. Now with the competition suspended they are desperate to search for that thrill elsewhere. Nick is willing to risk and try and find it like this.

And then Krystyana adds. “Important question, though. Soft limits or hard limits, Kygs?”

The risk never comes without a prize and his willingness becomes dare in the times of isolation and separation and missing the routine, longing after fire of purpose _their_ matches have always been for Nick. So he dives in deep and blind into the only possible option.

“Lay it on me, girl. I’m all in.”

*

Rafa feels his body buzzing. Post adrenaline thrill of readjusting yourself back to the feel of the racket, to the surface under your feet, beloved red dust making you glide, making you light on your feet. The muscles are shifting, turning, twisting inside him. It hurts. But it hurts so good. Memory of an athlete filling up his body to the brink, as he remembers how to move, as he remembers how to be in control.

He gives his all. Burning now in sweat and satisfying exhaustion. The training is a match-stake experience to him. Always. And yet. It’s not the same. It’s never the same. The spark of competitiveness barely shimmers inside him. Longs for the proper fuel to light it up to make it a brightest heat. There is no date in sight on whatever this might be.

An ignition.

It’s getting an appetizer, wetting your hunger, stirring it. And never being offered the main course. He’s thirsty for more and then he’s denied. Each training session a reminder of that. Picking up pace, being closer to the summit, just to crumble down the high.

Hollow and empty.

Body wired to fall to disjointed pieces moments after.

So now, there’s a moment of almost reaching into that flame inside just to sense it burning cold, or not being there at all, or being just ashes once your hand meets the mirage to reveal is as just that.

He gets under the shower, in the cabins at the Academy, to wash the hollowness away, to wash the fake sensation of heat that is only an echo of what might be. His body no longer taunt and ready to go. It feels paper thin. Like he’s disappearing. Slowly. Inevitably. Like he forgets what to use it for.

Mery’s getting the house ready for the family visit. He’s stalling the return. Partially because he naively thinks he’s recreating the residue of what tennis used to carry for him by training here, in this place, as if time didn’t stop, as if the world didn’t end. But mostly because it feels like betrayal. The world did not pause for any of it. The world moves on, he’s 34, he’s supposed to be in the middle of his battle for Paris. Feeling the anticipation, deep sense of purpose, fulfillment and the wholeness, that he’s where he was always meant to be, doing what he was destined to be doing.

No. He’s not. And he’s not ready to face that. The chill from the water trails with goose bumps on his skin as he’s putting on sweatpants and a tank top, still empty, body already forgetting what it’s like to be fueled by the thrill of being on court.

Body abandoned to stillness.

The notification sound of Instagram message on his phone reverberates loud and sobering, in the empty place of the shower cabins. Birthday wishes? Sad reminders of time passing by, every day, without a chance to rekindle what’s known and beloved. They drag him to face reality. They pull him onto the light to stop pretending (he can fully live his life without competitive tennis).

_hi_

Seeing the name by the message makes him double check. Hair still damp, droplets on his eyelids. Maybe he didn’t read it correctly.

It’s Nick.

The spark that went off inside him the moment the adrenaline retreated from his system and he remembered the reality they all used to live in is back. A small flame at the core of him. Flaring up to flicker now.

They have talked like this only once. Rafa’s return on the court to train after such a long separation from it followed. Just as Nick’s did. Like they are wired, in tennis. The true meaning of it, the gravity of it in their life, being in clashes together, anchored in chasing each other. Even when miles apart. The sensation of almost knowing the purpose again, as if preparing for their head-to-head to resume, as if hardening the fitness for their marathon, lasted for a while. Was enough for Rafa to think this is enough. Him training. Him testing the ground for the unforeseeable future. That will come. One time. Soon. Later. When? Until it didn’t and he felt hollow again. The fuel in him used up.

Until now.

_Nick?_

He asks incredulously, sitting down on a bench. Surprised, but it’s a tumbling feeling. Twisting, moving, bending him inside, like the adrenaline did before. Filling the emptiness.

_no its ubaldo pretending to be me to ask you some questions cos his life without dropping bombs during pressers is boring as fuck_

The place echoes with Rafa’s laughter, while the spark inside him twinkles with warmth. That bizarre fondness Nick stirred in him the last time they talked like that awakens. Or maybe it was before, when the feeling came to life, when he saw him at that exhibition the whole tennis world played to save Australia (not knowing this is only the beginning of the end) but it was Nick who had started it, the sparkle of hope, and then showed up, wearing white, wearing this strange vulnerability on his face Rafa never noticed before, that ended up being all he saw in him afterwards.

Fondness upon realization how they were supposed to be strangers and how their tennis together somehow made them familiar and a constant in each other’s lives.

How easy being off the court with him felt.

_Dios mio. I never thought Ubaldo can be somewhere out there on Instagram catching players for the chats to bring sense to his life and to ruin our._

_im sure the dude’s out there doing just that but he didnt get to us yet thank fuck so yep …. its only me_

_I’m happy it’s you, Nick._

He types. Instinctive and true. The chill from the shower is replaced by being fresh and recharged. A new beginning. A clean slate. Let’s try that again, shall we? Remember what’s the purpose of life is about.

_because im not ubaldo or because its me???_

It’s a veiled questions. Rafa can see it in the letters. Somehow. The flashes of that vulnerability Nick shadowcasts wherever he goes. And Rafa never saw before. And Rafa associates with him all the time now. It’s there. In between the words. Like Nick is asking for the anchor for it.

Rafa responds without hesitation.

_Because it’s you, Nick._

Giving it. The anchor. Wondering what the sight of vulnerability dispersing into safety would look like on Nick’s face. In his eyes.

_cool that’s cool cool cool_

Would his eyes crease in abashment like he thinks he remembers they often do upon being asked some of the journalists’ questions. Exposing him with who he is under the layers of pretences. Maybe. Possible. What does Rafa know, really? His response is hectic and Rafa can almost hear it in his mumbling voice. He does know. He does know him. How can he not, after so many years of watching him grow and crumble to pieces and repeat.

_cos I kinda made u something ….._

_Made me something?_

_Yep kinda a cake sdjfhskdf_

Rafa looks at the chaotic spill of letters absolutely confused but this also goes so well with Nick’s entire messy personality he just nods in acceptance. This is Nick’s presence in the form of writing. Loud, colourful, still carrying messages he either chooses to reveal for those he trusts or let’s people make an effort to read for themselves.

Rafa still thinks of the abashment.

_Hmm, a cake? What’s the occasion?_

Rafa teases that abashment some more out of him. Suddenly the prospect of confronting his birthday (and time passing by, not in terms of him aging but missing tennis) does not weigh on him that much.

_ooh idk some dude some ppl call legend of tennis might be celebrating or sth_

_Is he? A legend you say? He must be old._

_is he old?_

Nick asks the question and it seems loaded. Intimate. Confronting. Pulling Rafa out in the open like Nick always did on court. Rafa doesn’t feel old. Rafa feels late. Like he’s out of time. Even though he has so much to do, still. But ultimately, it does make him feel unfitting. Losing. Lost. So he confirms. If only to be melancholic. With someone who might understand and not feel guilty in helplessness. Like his family might, if he confessed it.

_Si, I am._

Nick is silent for a moment. Blank screen responds but making Rafa calm, seen and understood, still. Tranquil almost. Because Nick has so little silence to give and this silence now he has to give to Rafa speaks with acceptance and empathy for what Rafa is going through. Until bubbly presence returns with a whiplash typical of Nick. (Bright flares to distract you, so that you could never capture the essence, see the real, true shape of him). 

_so like you mean i should call you papi then?_

The spark rekindled inside him is now a spike of heat, resembling the buzz before the matches, but somewhat thicker, heavier, deeper. Rafa’s hand clutches on the edge of the bench when he sends a warning? Or a plea?

_Nick …._

_is that a yes?_

It’s difficult to read Nick even when you see him. Or maybe especially then. Rafa thinks him writing, him in texts, like this, might be the closest to what’s behind the wall of colours and flares. Now, the way his message comes, instantly, ( just like he is on court, with Rafa’s shots, sharp, quick and relentless) tells Rafa the teasing undertones no longer dominate this conversation.

His hand closes tighter on the wooden surface.

_Buy me dinner first. You promised anyway._

Maybe it’s him missing the stir the on court adrenaline awakens in him and Nick fuels with his challenge, with his mystery, with him always knowing which buttons of Rafa to push to make him react (rage, laugh, follow, clash, chase, long for, wonder, the kaleidoscope of maddening extremes). Maybe it’s him sitting in this empty place, with moisture in the air clinging to his skin, strangely sensual, the silence here cocooning him , or them, into separate, isolated dimension of their own. Like when they wait in the hall, before they’re announced on court, wrapped in mutual anticipation. Something personal. Something very much their own. So he clings to it for dear life.

_Theres cake okay? .. ive always been skipping main course straight to a dessert kind of a guy if u know what i mean raf_

Nick is most definitely not talking about his tennis tactics. That’s a given. Rafa chuckles, embracing the obvious fondly. Which he throws at Nick in a seemingly innocent.

_Clearly. Oh, to be the shortest time on court. Hmm, I wonder what it say about you, Nick._

_Haha very funny … and also not true… im never like that with you on court_

It is the truth. Rafa remembers. Clings to the surface of the bench under the wave of memories, that come with the smell of sweat, smoke and ashes to him. He played fierce, exhausting rallies with Roger, with Novak, with Stan. But with Nick, this game they play, this game they _share_ , is not about gladiator effort of the athletes fighting for the crown. It’s often ugly and raw, because it reaches deep, the deepest into the very tendons of their hearts bleeding out with intimate poems of violence that is closeness, of war that is belonging, of anger that is need. This game never feels like a clash of tennis players. There’s personal streak that encompasses them on court, makes them want to prove something going way beyond head-to-head score. Claim or reclaim this strange kind of belonging they have.

This is what’s missing whenever he gets off court now, after training.

They are in limbo with this game of theirs.

They are in limbo with this belonging of theirs.

Rafa writes, memories ripe but painful inside him.

_See? Main course can be not that bad._

To put it mildly. Moisture on his skin feels like sweat. The inside of his mouth is dry. The heat inside him is hunger for that special brand of tennis they play.

And Nick’s text comes like an appetizer.

_but i want a dessert, raf don’t you want your dessert now?_

There’s insistence but there’s vulnerability, too. Rafa feels almost assaulted with the heat this stirs in him. Heat curiously wrapped in protectiveness. Nick sounds (looks, because he’s still reading letters, and yet he thinks he’s never read him deeper) exposed in need. A boy speaking his desires out loud (stomping his feet, but crying out openly for the assistance or help).

Rafa conceals the emotion with a light-hearted.

_Always I, I, I with you Nick, si? Was the cake not for me?_

Like talking to a boy. Explaining him the world will wait for him, no one will run or abandon him. That it’s all right. That it’s good. He doesn’t have to cry for attention any more.

Now when he has it, Nick keeps it with almost fierce dedication with his.

_Yes raf … The cake is all for you to have_

It’s revealing. It’s disarming. It’s lying himself bare for Rafa. The heat grows and the protectiveness becomes possessiveness now.

_… so my mum taught me that we eat with our eyes first , yeah? so here have a first bite_

The picture that follows makes Rafa gasp audibly, cling to the surface he’s sitting on for balance. It’s a close up on Nick’s eyes, zoomed and cropped the way you can’t escape the gaze (but Rafa’s been a hostage of it often before). His eyelids are smudged with glittering shades, golden, crimson, Spanish palette, but it reminds Rafa of Philippe Chatrier Court, the colour of the surface, the flash of the trophy in his hands, with national pride woven in. The shades bring the gaze out and it’s a look Nick often has across the net for him. Heavy-lidded, mocking or taunting, but with that cry for attention underlying among rich, beautiful brown almost black.

Rafa drowns.

He never saw it up close. Directed at him so solely, so absolutely. With eyes speaking so deep, so intimately, and that make-up constituting the sensations of Paris to him, leaving him breathless in ache. For that, but for that in thrill of clashes on court they always had with Nick.

The heat spreads to cover him inside entirely.

_Nick…_

Is all he has to say. Breaths burning his throat, words melting on his tongue.

_what do you see raf?_

The eyes gleam with glitter and glint, too. Calling to him. Like Nick does across the net. Luring him in to run, to follow.

His fingers shake when he writes.

_Want. Hunger. Invitation. To chase …_

He should write the ball, your tennis, your game. But maybe it, this spark between, always went beyond that. Making their game bleed with tangible, personal connection. Making the shots be about more than just a trajectory of the ball, but words, accusations, demands, confessions thrown at each other with a racket? So he doesn’t write either because it’s not the truth. They deserve the truth, in that cocooned space of theirs, where Nick shows him the layers and Rafa doesn’t want to stop reading him.

_… you. To catch you. To have you._

_how do you have me rafa …. what do you do to me?_

After so many years of them playing together Nick knows exactly how to expose him, how to make Rafa move so that he leaves the court bare and open and Nick instantly occupies it with his rocket forehand. Just as he knows how to stay under Rafa’s skin afterwards. Long after the sweat sinks into him, after the breath settles inside his lungs, the racket stays at the bottom of his bag. Rafa still feels Nick on him.

When they play, tennis never feels like a no contact sport.

Suddenly to Rafa it seems like he’s played a rally, let himself be chased all over the court by Nick’s lure and he can’t catch a breath, suspended over the edge of exhaustion and ecstasy combined. The possibilities overwhelm him. Nick taunts the heat some more.

_what would be your first bite… birthday boy?_

The reaction is instinctive, like his return would be (one of the very few capable of getting on that razor sharp serve).

_Your mouth …_

If the letters could be breathless.

A whimper of ache.

He puts it on the heat inside. His boldness. On the fever, of being away from competitive tennis for too long. There’s no one here. The letters are not touches, are not kisses, are not closeness.

Or are they?

The picture that follows proves him wrong. His skin stretched too tight on his body, buzzing with this raw ache in him. (He no longer knows for what). He refuses to touch himself. The entire time, he digs his fingers into the wooden surface, consumed by this ever-growing heat inside.

Now, it’s an image of Nick’s mouth sent to his phone, with eyes still peering into Rafa from beneath the eyelashes (shimmering with that gold and crimson of Roland Garros dream, the blackness of pupils bottomless, drawing him in, making him want to get lost in this oblivion entirely, hand almost trailing to his stomach, to his thigh, to do just that). Eyes still speak of invitation, with mouth practically moaning loudly with it. Parted, full lips, shining with smudges of rosy moisture, Mery wears whenever she goes outside. A lip gloss. Shaping Nick’s lips into irresistible picture of sin itself. Rafa’s knuckles whiten, as he clings for endurance, rejecting the thoughts, the sensations of a taste, of texture, of wetness and warmth. Nick’s mouth is always harsh, spilling cruel words. Rafa can’t stop but wonder how soft they would feel. How disarming. On his mouth or on his ….

_where do you want it?_

God. The letters are supposed to be touch-less, sensations-less. And yet Nick reads that ache in Rafa. The abandon growing in him along with heat. He mastered his endurance, his patience into steel. His hand remains unmoving, and he ignores how unstable the fingers of the other one are on a screen of his phone, when he dares, the words almost seem loud. Almost echo in here. Revealing.

_You say something about biting …._

It’s a plea. Or an order. Or something in between. The moistness on his skin burns him. It feels like he wants to get rid of his skin. Tear Nick of layers, too. So that they can be bare and true in each other.

_hmmmmm … like that?_

Another image makes the words into touches and sensations. Eyelids fluttering, like he’s drunk on pleasure, Nick’s biting on his bottom lip, like Rafa could. Like Rafa would. Nothing could stop him. Tasting guilt but tasting inevitable. Tasting heat and fulfillment he’s been missing this entire time. With the world ending around them but maybe even before, whenever he played anyone else, just methodical, clean-cut tennis.

Not visceral surgery on the open heart.

God.

Was their tennis always about that?

He implores. 

_I want to be soft with you we are violent on court we are rage there I want to be soft here._

The fact he admits so openly that he _wants_ to begin with is like bleeding out with a wound inside him. But he never felt closer to the truth about Nick, even if he sends out distractions of eye shadows or lip gloss. Rafa doesn’t even ask him if he’s drunk, if this is a joke, if this is some kind of cruel provocation, something Nick could have and would have done in his attempts to hide and pretend. Because in the heat in coal black of Nick’s eyes or even in a way his mouth’s parted like he sighs for more, there’s submission.

Capitulation.

( _This is for you, for I am yours to have_.)

So Rafa doesn’t ask him.

Rafa capitulates with him.

Almost.

His hand remains still. But the heat burns inside. The images of what could happen, what should happen, too.

_don’t …. dont be soft with me i wasn’t soft with you before. when you kiss me youll know I taste like you rafa_

Rafa bites on a moan, on juicy, thick, silky implications this carries. He’s hard, he’s on fire by that point, his skin covered in sweat, tingling in wired taunt neediness. To have. To possess. God. His entire life he’s been taught patience and endurance. He wants to devour now. Like a tame broke in him and lava pours through.

_Tell me ….._

It would be a primal groan.

_i kneeled for you before took you in my mouth and swallowed you whole as much as i can because i wanted this my entire life … i think…_

Rafa caves in with hoarse sound of neediness scorching his throat and he bites on his hand, not to release it out loud. And with it, the truth and nothing but the truth. He’s reading the words greedily, seeing the images, feeling them under his skin, wondering: how would Nick’s hair feel under his hand as he pulls him closer, because he can’t stop, he mustn’t stop, they don’t have time, they shouldn’t but they were not meant to be doing anything else, were they?

Nick continues. Relentless. Merciless.

Yes. More. Never stop.

_and i was sucking you off to keep you inside for a long time after to taste you long after to feel you and you couldn’t help yourself Rafa and you fucked my mouth my lip gloss mouth wet mouth and so i left marks on your cock so that you wont forget and you were coming inside me and i couldn’t get enough of you fuck you taste so good chocking me spilling inside me and i drink you to last drop_

And the image follows. Another photograph to the collection.

God. Rafa needs to keep them, cherish them, never let them go. He’s greedy, he’s selfish. He’s guilty.

But he can’t say no. He won’t say not.

With Nick sucking on his fingers, mouth round, glossy, wet around them, eyes half-closed (golden shades glistening in the semi-darkness like a cascade of stars on the sky guiding Rafa home, to where he belongs, to him) as if he’s high from that taste, as if he’s hungry for more of Rafa. Rafa who would let himself be swallowed, even in the aftershocks, pulsing inside that perfect warmth and moist tightness.

His endurance bleeds. But as long as he doesn’t touch himself, this didn’t happen, this never happened, he can go home, ~~fuck her~~ , no, make love to her in the evening thinking how perfect she feels around him, how nothing and no one can compare. His wife. His beloved. The only one.

It’s then. Maybe. Hopefully.

But now, he consumes the vision. Unlike he was always taught. At one go. Gorges himself. Only Nick can break his habits like that. Only Nick can rattle the core of him, make him rage, expose himself on court there and then and here and now make him turn into this perched madman of devouring appetites.

And he’s left breathless, still riding that high, like after their rally, when another blow comes, physical, felt deeply inside, with a spike of heat almost making him come in his pants like a teenager.

_Or maybe you came all over my face raf fucking spilled yourself on that lip gloss mouth and look what it did to me_

The framing of another one Nick sends is a tangible sensation of raw pleasure ripped from him. Like he’s filled to the brink, overflowing with aftershocks of orgasm, his body tense, arching. Not his own. Hijacked.

Like it is on court. Like it is by Nick.

Nick’s still biting on his shiny lips, as if Rafa’s pulling on the bottom one with his teeth (Rafa thinks about doing this, the softness, his harsh words now sighs, warm breaths on Rafa’s mouth, he thinks of his own taste on the silky texture, and it hurts, not the way it always does, the pain he carries as inseparable part of himself, but hollow, demanding to be sated, and only Nick, tasting him, having him, is the medicine). The shot shows his chest, too, perked nipples, as if teased, by his fingers, by his hands (the spark of jealousy pierces him). Nick’s skin shines, like a shin of post-coital sweat, but it glimmers, peppered with freckly diamonds. It reminds Rafa the lotion Mery sometimes uses for galas or public events they go to. But it never made him feel dehydrated. The skin he sees is patches of chestnut delicacies. He thinks of caramel, too. Layers of it, silky, smooth, sweet but salty (Nick is sweating that need for Rafa, Nick wants him just as much) and his mouth waters. He thinks he can taste blood in his mouth from the way he’s been biting on the unreleased truth, preventing sounds ringing at the very center of his soul.

(This silence is sacred. This silence means deliverance or denial or both).

But he’s already damned, touched by what he’s seen here today, to the very core of him. It’s engraved there like a holy scripture.

Patches of skin lead to parted thighs, the smoothness of the surface looks like he’s shaved (Rafa feels like he hasn’t tasted water for years) and to his hips clad in red, lacy lingerie, tight, flimsy, composing with the shades of golden brown so well.

God. It’s art. It’s divine.

But it’s carnal and sensual and he thinks of biting, of wolfing it all down. Licking, grazing, bruising, claiming. The panties barely cover Nick, don’t hide the way he wants back. He’s hard, there’s glistening proof of him being wet for that too.

For Rafa.

And the hand on his stomach wonders closely to the edges of the lingerie, to bring himself off (spike of possessiveness almost comes out as a whimper to echo in here).

It started with greed. Went through envy and lust. Now it’s gluttony.

He’s damned.

But as long as he doesn’t touch himself it didn’t happen. As long as he doesn’t make the sound either. He is his own. Not hijacked. Not marked by this forever. He will smile to Mery. He will kiss her. Make love to her. And be complete in her arms.

The letters his shaking hand composes betray him as stolen, though.

As Nick’s.

_You’re so smooth … Will your skin bruise if I bite it, Nick?_

_Its your cake raf you can do whatever you want what do you want? tell me_

The photo now focuses on thighs, opened even wider with Nick’s hand now closed on hardness, as if stroking it through red laces (red like blood inside Rafa burning with heat, ringing in his ears now with primal desire). Nick’s skin shines, lures him in, to the center of radioactive star he will scorch in.

After he does, there will be no evidence of what happened here.

Only ashes.

The legs are opened in invitation, crimson nicely composing with gold absolves him, makes it all familiar. Taking Nick, fucking him, a patriotic duty. Rafa almost laughs hysterically, if he wasn’t afraid any sound he releases from his throat would expose him with this rawest need.

His body is not his own so he writes. The truth and nothing but the truth.

_I start from your neck, Nick. My mouth, my teeth there. You will see. Everyone will see it later. Kiss your chest, suck your nipples, maybe bite, too. You move to me, closer. You want to feel me, so you rub against me. Hard and wet. You bow for me, Nick, your legs open to let me in. Shameless and needy._

The image is there in his head already, vivid, delicious, his body weeps for it, even if he steels his responses into lifeless. Nick still sends it.

_like this?_

Perched on a red, leather sofa, legs obscenely wide, he’s leaning backwards on the deep, maroon surface. Rafa thinks and the thoughts hurt him, about Nick’s sweaty skin gliding on the leather, leaving wet marks as Rafa bends him on it, to fuck, to plunge into him with violence and fierceness they share on court, he never had and never could have for Mery. Hand clutching the edges of the furniture as he’s arching for Rafa to feast on, showing his neck, his collarbones, head tilted backwards, mouth opened like he’s gasping on loud moans. Lacy material clings to his glistening skin. Nick’s hard cock slips through the edges of the lingerie, the crown shining, indecent, on display. No longer an appetizer. A main course Rafa is perched for now. There are layers to tear, still. To bite on, so that he could consume Nick’s very essence. So that he could steal him into himself just as Nick did Rafa, before he even noticed.

He’s even envious of tattoos, the sleeve majestic, detailed, covering the entire length of his arm, covering that precious skin. He’s not envious. He’s angry with Nick marking himself like that, while all he should is to wear marks Rafa leaves on him, skin naked, pristine, to claim as rightfully is.

_I want to feel your heart first. With my mouth, Nick. My hand reach for you, stroke you through a material but I kiss your heart when I do that. How loud is it?_

He goes there. To touch this vulnerability. To find out if it’s real.

Nick’s hand caressing a place where his heart beats is captured on his phone, with, somehow small, somehow needy.

_like when i play you like when i think theres nothing better than tennis with you_

Body lotion and sweat mingle on his skin and Rafa thinks he’s never wanted to taste anything more in his life. And he never will want. (He doesn’t touch himself. He’s painfully hard, but he wills himself to push it away from his head and his body, from underneath his running a fever skin. He will find peace in Mery’s softness and her warmth. Her smooth skin, an oblivion and absolution. Soon. No one will ever know.) And Nick’s fingers dig into his chest in a place of his heart like Nick is willing to offer it now. Raw, bleeding.

God.

You can shake off the sensuality but you can’t the closeness this is turning into.

Interwoven with tennis, too. By Nick’s words. Heart beating with purpose and belonging. Knowing your place. It’s on the other side of the net, heat inside fueling life and passion like nothing else.

_My teethmark there too so you know and you remember._

Possessiveness boils inside, covers him with slimy feeling of sweat. Like he’s bare. Exposed. Guilty. Ugly. Selfish. (He doesn’t touch himself, does he? This is his absolution. It is. It is. It will be.)

_trmember wht_

Shaky letters, distorted message. Nick is on the verge, maybe closing his palm on himself, stalling the moment, waiting on Rafa. But Rafa can’t join him there. Won’t. He mustn’t. He still plays with this fire he hasn’t felt for so long. Like forever. That taunt, stretching feeling of the edge of glory.

Nick nudges him closer to the abyss.

_say it tell me please_

Would it be moans muffled by Rafa’s skin Nick mouths to. Or sights blocked by a fist he bites on to stop himself from coming. Nick pleading. God. He will never know what it looks like, how it sounds.

The possessiveness still bleeds out of him uncontrolled.

_Remember that you’re mine, Nick._

_iam i ami am fuck im yours please need want touch me please rafa anything_

Rafa thinks about murmuring to Nick’s skin, maybe behind his earlobe, maybe tempering with diamond stubs in his ears, his tongue busy, his tongue playful, as he hushes Nick, reassures him (lies to him, _I’m here, I’m touching you, I’m guiding you home_ ), hands never tearing away from moist and smooth texture of skin (on his shoulders, on his chest, on his thighs, he would open up even wider, more, God).

_I will. I touch you. Everywhere. I can’t stop. I bend you over that sofa, lay you on it but your legs open for me, on my shoulders, hmmm. You are meal for me, Nick, like that._

_i am .. look_

Rafa barely can. He’s steel. He’s been taught a monumental resilience. Like a statue of perseverance and focus. But that ache piercing him inside to have what he opens his eyes to almost knocks the breath off him. It’s that combination of exhaustion and ecstasy he goes through whenever there’s a marathon match he plays and it comes from Nick. Of course, it does.

From Nick, sprawled on that red leather sofa, legs bent at knees, torso glistering temptingly as he arches for more, he bites on his fingers with head turned sideways, like he’s trashing in pleasure, his cock almost escaping the restraints of the lacy underwear for the taking.

The way his face looks almost pained, eyes shut like he’s despairing over the distance between them, not only here and now. Always. It makes the image gut-wrenchingly disarming. Rafa feels moisture in the corner of his eyes. He’s a physical steel. It doesn’t hurt physically. It’s a longing of different sorts.

He lets it break out of him (it’s in letters, it’s on screen, and he doesn’t touch himself, it’s all right).

_Cariño, eres hermoso. Tan hermoso. Quiero ser gente contigo._

He wants to give him softness to keep the truth about him (Nick looks like Rafa’s ache feels). But the truth is terrifying, it makes forgetting about this, it makes pretending about this, impossible. Or maybe he’s crossed this line anyway. And it doesn’t matter because he’s never free as of now anyway.

_I smell you and taste you over the material. So pretty. Red. To tease me like you tease me on court. I put my mouth on you. Over this panties. You’re wet and hard and warm and perfect. For me. And when I kiss your pretty cock I give you my fingers to suck. My fingers to have them nice and ready because I want to go deep in you, Nick. Taste you deep. I never could stop myself when eat sweet things. I won’t stop myself now too._

Another picture follows. It’s blurred, like Nick can’t hold the camera any longer, sweating into the leather surface, the thought of sensations on both their bare skins makes Rafa battle shivers of anticipation. (He doesn’t touch himself. It hurts, but this is his punishment. This is his forgiveness.) A flash of red laces slipping from his hips, cock coated in pre-cum, mouth wrapped around fingers greedily, eyes heavy-lidded this time looking right at him with a visceral plea, Nick somehow manages to type, too.

_don’t stop don’t stop yourself fuck fuckcufck pleas raf_

It’s a misleading permission. He shouldn’t be given. It’s pleading and desperate: go as deep as you want. He can’t. Not only physically. But he’s not sure if he wouldn’t. He’s not sure if the distance is not the only thing stopping him.

_Your skin is so smooth, Nick. I can’t help myself. My wet fingers play with your nipples. You bow so nice for me. Buen chico. I want to be soft but I want to mark that smooth skin. So smooth, silky. Like caramel on a cake is. So I bite the inside of your thighs, spread your legs more, wide, for my dessert, si?_

The shot shows Nick’s abdomen, splattered with pearly droplets already, that mingle with the shining sheet of sweat and lotion and the lingerie, even lower on his hipbones now as he sneaks his hand under the waistline to pull more of himself out, dripping wet, deliciously tempting, fingers glistening with evidence. The red of the laces pulses with raw want but the flashes of skin, in dimmed darkness of the room make it subdued and sensual.

Nick is the very art of temptation and Rafa is the damned. Even if he lies to himself. Even if the voice inside his head chants: you don’t touch yourself, you’re absolved.

_I will take care of you, sweetheart. Keep the panties on. So pretty. So perfect for you. I take you out and stroke you. Smooth, wet, you fit into my hand so well, yes? The material itch, the material make the sensation better, si? Keep it on I still get my dessert. With a nice dressing. I stroke you and you weep for me, so wet for me. I need taste. So much. I do. I take you to my mouth, swallow you, in and out, in and out. And my fingers slip behind the laces and I feel you there. So tight. So warm. You try take me deeper. Always so greedy. Always so impatient._

God. Even in writing it bleeds with intimacy. Like they already did it. Not only on court. Like them being on court has always been this. The heat Rafa’s been missing, to compete, to clash, was about this chase, about getting to him and having, having, having, not stopping. He’s glad there’s distance. There’s always a distance between them. The net separates them, the story about rivalry, about being so different they could never meet halfway. They live on the edges of the world. Rafa’s glad. Relieved even. He thinks now if they crossed that distance in any way there would be no stopping them. Like that. Insatiable. Never seated. For each other.

There is no response this time. Nick descends into oblivion of blinding pleasure. Touches himself. Maybe fingers himself, too, to feel everything, not only in letters but on himself.

Rafa refuses to touch himself, still. Patiently enduring so that he could pretend later on. That he’s forgiven and this is forgotten.

He lies to himself so well, when typing.

_Hmmm, you take me so good, Nick. Just my fingers. And you’re so loud, are you? You always so loud on court. The sounds we both make. Now I think the sounds are not of people playing tennis. I can hear how much you want this before I feel it on my hands, then, when your shots are so fierce like you call for attention and now, your cock so wet for me, and you so loose. I want to be soft with you but I could rip these panties from you. Maybe with my teeth. Because I can’t wait to be inside you. Your long legs, smooth legs, on my shoulders so I can kiss skin. Bite your ankles, your calves. Maybe you make sounds, giggle and moan, because you’re ticklish. But then you have only my name for me when I take you so loose and ready, fuck you with my cock. I think … one push of my cock and you’re mine. Are you?_

The silence that comes with the question, or the plea, or the only truth about them Rafa buried under all the games and shots they played, that always spelled out something different than tennis, rings so loud, so exposing. His head is buzzing, his body sweats. He feels like he came anyway, the steel inside him shattered into pieces, even though physically he wills himself off the high, seemingly clean, seemingly untouched by it all.

(Goose bumps betray him though. Sweat is a slimy sensation, too. Anyone who would look at him could tell. That this belonging he talked about goes both ways.)

He tries not to look at the phone to the series of sounds announcing few messages. He fails. (He will always let himself be lured by Nick. Now off court, too.) His knuckles go white from gripping the case, assaulted by the visuals he gives in to (he’s so familiar with pain refusing himself to come doesn’t touch him as much as that gaping ache for Nick, like that, vulnerable and his does).

The photos are a blur (the blood buzzes in his head, black spots under his eyelids, that place between post-orgasm exhaustion and still pulsing pleasure. Nirvana. Something that always comes after the adrenaline of win leaves his body. Perfectly sated serenity. Now he has it, he recalls it, with Nick).

Pearly spots on Nick’s sweat coated chest with hand gathering the markings, nails digging into skin like Nick doesn’t want to let any drop of their doings go to waste. (His, his, his doings. Not theirs. Rafa didn’t touch himself. Rafa is clean). Mouth sucking on the droplets like Nick can’t get enough of a taste of himself coming from Rafa’s words (his face blissful, eyelids look like they are fluttering, golden glitter of shades making his lashes almost cast shadows on his cheeks). And finally the one with eyes opened, like windows to Nick’s soul, peering into Rafa with something raw, something pleading: _I’m yours like that, I’m yours always, will you have me._ Lips parted, glistening with an aftertaste of the orgasm he went through, like he’s panting for more. More. More of this between them.

Rafa saw the sunset over the Philippe-Chatrier on his first win there (setting the clay on fire that didn’t touch him but made him rise over and over again like a phoenix of this place). He saw the Academy take its shape, being built day by day and then opened for people of all life stories, skills, skin colour and dreams but people coming together in their love for tennis, like found family sharing what he loves the most, too. Rafa saw Mery in her wedding dress, subtle but stunning, getting to him by the altar in her graceful strength and sheltering reassurance, she pledged herself to him for always, her hand in his willing but supporting.

But he thinks none of this compares to what he sees now.

Physicality and sensuality of Nick speaks of disarming rawness. His own oath. Or a reminder of one. (I have always been yours like that. On court and off it, doesn’t matter).

Even in the letters that form the message that comes after Rafa reads this, in between the lines.

_fuck raf…. so good ..t was soooogood …._

It looks languish. Rafa thinks of Nick’s body sprawled and sated, as he nuzzles close to his chest, settles on it selfish and demanding (maybe claiming what’s rightfully his). He wonders what the words would feel like, murmured rasped on his skin. Would Nick cuddle closer. Would Rafa let him. Affection, intimacy. Before they go again. Because they would. And again. And again. Jesus. His body is calm now, but there’s a residue of satiety from before. Reaching that high with Nick and finding belonging there.

He wants to write. How this is the moment he would be soft with Nick. They could kiss. Sweet and lazy. Find breathing together. They could lie in this pleasant aftermath and drift off into peaceful familiarity.

He doesn’t. He can’t. He needs to steel himself back to forgetting. Or forgiving himself.

Or maybe mostly pretending.

_did you like your birthday cake raf?_

There’s nudging insecurity in a question back again. Rafa imagines Nick, lying on the sofa, bare with everything he has, he’s just shared, too, sweat cooling off, skin still glistening with body shimmer but pleasure Rafa gave him and he seeks reassurance. Rafa wonders whether he would try to nestle his head on his shoulder, refuse to look him in the eye in fear of seeing the denial, the escape from them, and shyly mouth the words into a collarbone.

Nick doesn’t let him escape. Doesn’t let him pretend to forgive and forget.

He needs to respond. He needs to confront it. The truth. About them. That is marked on him, deep within, maybe forever (even if he didn’t touch himself. Even if he didn’t come. It still feels he did do both).

_Yes, Nick. I did._

He wants to lie. He wants it to be just an empty statement. Patronising pet on the head you do with a kid asking you about the drawing they did, when you’re running late. Or a neighbour showing off their car, when you’re distracted. No substance there. No meaning. No connection.

He still has the photos. He will keep the photos. He knows he will. Somehow. He must. An instinct in him stirs and already stores this urgent though in his head as an obligatory thing to do. Inevitable. A domino effect. They started with that previous meeting online.

No.

They started in 2014.

Nick believes him. Because Nick knows the truth. Has known it for a while. And showed it to him today, bare, unadorned, stripped down to the very core. ( _I’m yours._ ) So he replies, trustful and disarming in his playfulness.

_mhmmm cos theres more for you to have u know … and the panties got fucking ruined like they would anyway yeah? with you here …. for real having your ways with me Im so keeping them … to remember … to think about what would happen raf .. fuck. Im .._

There is no filter to him. On the phone. Or out there. At the same time you could try to read him and you would still get nothing. Because he won’t let you in. Wrapped in pretences, hiding behind flares, building walls from pressures, demands and assumptions.

With the exception of Rafa. Here, today. And maybe always. Since a boy of 18 looked at him by the net then, frail challenge, shy admiration and childlike dare there. And this boy never left. Has been living under his skin with his truth that became their truth along the way.

And it bleeds through now, too.

_it feels like i can feel you …. will you keep the pictures?_

Like he’s asking something else. ( _Will you remember?)_

Here and now, he can’t lie and he won’t. It’s their truth and it’s always been their truth and there is no escaping it.

_Yes, Nick. I will._

_(I will remember.)_

But Nick has always been daring. Maybe almost greedy. Starved for this. Draining Rafa dry. Taking everything. After making Rafa bleed for him willingly. Just like he did today. So he follows that oath between them up with.

_I should choose pink one for the next time… your favourite colour, yeah? and maybe shop for other things, too, toys .. so that you could have that cake properly, when watching me fuck myself like you would hmm?_

Next time.

God.

Just as he thought the images of them cooling off in bed before the next round and the next one again. Like on court. The wheel doesn’t stop turning and they are insatiable, each meeting wetting the appetite for more. As if it’s always been a transfer for something else.

_Nick …_

It can be defensive. It can be rebuking. It can be pleading. It’s all of these together, Rafa thinks. The heat inside him stirring back to life with the suggestions Nick writes.

_Yeah …. I think imam test the toys thinking about this thinking about you fucking ruining me raf…..and then i want you to watch me to see how i would take you how youre made for that .. for me …_

And then he sends his number.

It’s a blatant implication. The buzz of blood in his head sounds piercing. It’s a dare, it’s a tease, it’s Nick taunting him, like he always did and like he always will. Your move, your shot, the ball is yours.

Will you call to watch me? Will you dare to see the truth for what it is?

But it’s Nick coming clean and laying himself bare, too, with readiness to embrace their truth and be in it.

*

Rafa spends the rest of his day, performing, really. They try to keep it small. The celebration. He’s terrified for his closed ones, always, so the audience for his poor acting skills is limited enough not to see through it. He smiles, he shows gratitude, he clings to Mery, holding her hand, remembering how well it fits into his, something to adore and something to hold on to when he doubts.

To reassure whom? Himself or her?

They don’t make love in the evening. He says, he’s tired, kisses her forehead, prolongs it, apologetic or pleading or both. She pretends she didn’t maybe notice there might be something else to it, when she curls by his side to sleep.

The pictures are on his phone (the truth bleeds out), the number is saved, too (the heat still flickers inside, waiting for the next time to be rekindled) and his body feels languish and pleasantly sated, as if they did make love with Mery (as if he had what he wanted, finally, after so long, but not with her).

He dreams of shimmering gold, like a path made of stardust, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, guiding him home.

And the longing and regret over burying Paris settles into a silent hum.

Acceptance.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This goes to that "canon" verse in which I gave them a kind of an insta live together and oh well, what do you mean this escalated quickly?? haha. But hey, Nicholas has never been a man of neither balance nor well thought decision making, and he really does crave that mineral so what can you do.
> 
> 2) I know nothing of Miss Krystyana Haridemos, apart from that iconic jeans-gate from episode 49854 of Nick and Anna CW Show and the fact she seems to be Nick's beer buddy (he seems to be having mostly those type of buddies but what do I know) that pours beer on his head when they go on discos together, instead of buying him sexy lingerie and dressing him up and teaching him some make-up power ups when they practice their night life, SHAME ON YOU GUYS, so I shamelessly made her my proxy (fuck cringe culture write self inserts and embrace self inserts) BECAUSE REASONS.
> 
> 3) Yep, this is me defying all the dudebro boxes Nick tries to fit into so desperately and when he posts 99& of his selfies thinking he sells that brand I'm still like WOW THIS GUY WEARING EYE SHADE WHILE SENDING PICTURES TO HIS CUSTOMERS AS A PROFESSIONAL ESCORT I mean, is this not the vibe you were going for Nicholas? Cos that's all I read there lol
> 
> 4) Also, this is a variation of that other au I've been nursing of Stef taking his pictures with Nick as model (I mean, honestly that's the ultimate career path he should have taken if tennis hadn't worked for him, sorry Halimah) and the photos slowly revealing who Nick really is inside (as the commentators once said: A mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in all sorts of ambiguity).
> 
> 5) So, I made this all about Nicholas but hey Rafa is a brithday boy and he deserves this cake even if it comes with all shades of guilts and shames and masochism but that's Rafa so that's that.
> 
> 6) Finally, this is the visual recipe for that cake Nick made ... https://watson-sighs-and-tuts.tumblr.com/private/619554438447824896/tumblr_1l5BF2kZ3X8MJ2ctl (I still think it's better than the one Academy made him haha).


End file.
